


The Winchester Gospel

by adventageous (illeit)



Series: The Winchester Gospel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-16 00:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11242839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illeit/pseuds/adventageous
Summary: When everything else comes second, when you choose each other over everything, when the world is on the brink time and time again, how can you expect anything more?





	1. The Birth of The Fallen's Vessel

Before Dean had even learned how to properly tie his shoe so that it didn't come undone with the first step he took, he learned a very important lesson in his life. That was, nothing could stop him from complaining loudly when his father called for him to come inside from his concentrated destruction of the backyard track he'd built in the dirt for his monster trucks. Adamant that his favorite truck was going to win and that John would be thoroughly impressed at how good it was at smashing all the other cars and how unfair it was because that one's wheels were bigger and the other cars were just too small. John's amiable smile belied his lack of interest in the child's ramblings, chest swollen with pride at the dirt caked on his son's chubby cheeks and the exciteable babbling that had yet to stop even when the boy was balanced on the edge of the kitchen table.

 

Dean knew this was some sort of special occasion. He'd tried to climb up onto the table once and dad had snapped at him that his feet shouldn't be anywhere on a table and if he were caught trying that stunt again, dad was going to whoop him. Needless to say, he never let himself get caught clamoring up onto the sturdy surface again. His mischief was quickly performed while John was away at the garage and Mary had to switch over the laundry, or when she went into the restroom. He'd learned so quickly, it became a routine to do all the things the adults told him  _not_ to the moment they weren't around. Even if he didn't really feel like being bad. So when mommy placed him between them, the smell of his father's aftershave making him wrinkle his nose, his mother fussing with his dirt clumped hair, Dean knew that this was something very important.

 

He fell quiet the moment Mary turned to her husband, a bright smile like a thousand thousand suns lighting up her face that made her look like the angels she always claimed were watching over him. He didn't know  _what_ those were really, except that they looked like babies with bird's wings on their backs and weird rings around their head she called halos, but she said they were something beautiful and Dean always thought  _so was she_  and in the mornings when she'd wake him up, the sun would hit her golden locks just right and she'd glow. Just like she was doing now, only the sun was setting and out of view.

 

"Do you want to tell him?" Mary asked, glittering eyes flitting back and forth between John's lidded eyes, face sagging in contented exhaustion from his extensive day beneath the hoods of cars and while he looked dead on his feet, the man covered her hand with both of his, stroking her soft knuckles happily.

 

"Why don't you break the news? Pretty sure you got more right than I do." By now, Dean had moved on to things of greater importance, gaze traveling past the two crooning adults to the open back door where he'd left his race track on pause, itching to go find out who really won the race and just how big the damage would be if there happened to be a six car pile up. Not to mention his knees were starting to itch and there was dirt up his nose he wanted to dig out in private where he wouldn't be yelled at for bad manners. But before he could ask to go back outside, mom was kneeling before him, gathering his tiny dirty hands in hers and smiling up at him. He couldn't help but stare.

 

"Dean...remember when you told mommy you wanted someone to play with? How Jenny down the street had a sister she could play with and you wanted one?" Well, Dean couldn't exactly remember it being  _Jenny_ he had seen with a sibling nor that he wanted a sister, but he doesn't like to talk about her because she made fun of his favorite car that was missing a wheel. He'd decided then and there he wasn't going to talk to her or about her to anyone after that. Still, he nodded mutely and waited for the point of all of this dragged out fun-time interruption.

 

"Well, you're going to be a big brother!" The statement hadn't quite settled in until dad rubbed his back, exclaiming how he was going to have a baby brother or a baby sister he could play with, teach new things, go play monster trucks with. His wide eyes widened even further, lips pursed in an overly dramatic shocked oval as he looked between them both. Him! A big brother! That would show Jenny! He'd be the best big brother anyone had ever seen! Him and his baby brother would rule the block and terrorize little girl's tea parties because they didn't like cars that were missing wheels!

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They lied to him! Its been  _forever_ since they told him he was going to be a big brother but he's still brotherless and mommy's just gotten fat and daddy's weirdly obsessed with putting his head on the huge roundness of mommy's belly and this isn't fair! Where is the baby brother he was promised?! Every time he asks all they do is try to explain that the reason mommy got fat was  _because_ of his baby brother but that makes less sense than anything they've told him so far! He gives up, they lied and he's never going to get his brother and Jenny is going to lord it over him that he's just a boy all alone and he can't tip over her stupid pink table with her stupid tea set because her stupid sister is there with her and they can beat him up.

 

That is until one night very soon after he resolved himself to the deprivation of a smaller being to be his minion he's being tucked into bed by his father because mom's been acting weird all day and she's gone to lay down early. No bed time story for him. No reassurances that some baby-bird hybrid is watching over him. That's okay, at least he has the porcelain figure sitting on the shelf of his room to remind him. His eyes flutter closed as he drifts somewhere between that balance of sleep and wakefulness, just on the precipice of diving into blissful dreams when the sounds of his mother shouting startle him awake in a panic.

 

Why does it sound like mom's hurt? Where is dad? Heavy footfalls sound down the hallway and a panicked father shouts words too fast for Dean to understand properly. The boy scrambles out of his blankets, maneuvers out of his bed and onto the floor where he pads in his footie pajamas across the wood flooring to pull open his cracked door and watch as his mother waddles with John's hand clutched so tight in hers it looks like she might break it. They pass his door without so much as a glance and Dean hurries to follow after them, halting at the doorway as he witnesses the awkward shifting of his mother into the front seat of their car. Only when the door is closed behind her does John seem to remember he has a child waiting for him back in the house and in a flash Dean is scooped off of his feet, bouncing against his father's shoulder as he runs back to the car, practically throwing him into the back seat and buckling him in messily.

 

As the car speeds out of the parking space, Dean fidgets with his buckle to fix it. Dad always was terrible at strapping him in right.

 

The car drive is a blur, nothing but terrifying screeches coming from mom and he thinks she's going to die but dad is talking trying to soothe her and its doing wonders for not only her nerves, but also the baby boy looking like a lost child at a fairground in the back seat. Whatever this is, he doesn't like it. Not a bit. They finally come to a stop outside of a huge well-lit building Dean's more amazed at than scared of, and again he's in dad's arms, balanced on one arm while the other supports Mary and the moment they're in the doors there are people swarming them, offering a chair with wheels to his mother and wheeling her away as soon as she's in it.

 

That's when Dean starts crying. They were dressed so weird and mom was still screaming and now she's being taken away from him? It's too much! He buries his face in his father's shoulder and lets out heart wrenching sobs while John tries to comfort him, shooting apologetic looks to those stuck in the waiting room. Half an hour into his sobbing session, a nurse takes pity and offers him a sucker in exchange for a smile. Mom and dad rarely give him sugar willingly, so of  _course_ he's going to win that sucker. Its so easy when she talks to him, too. He forgets all about where mom went.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

What feels like ages pass and his sucker is long gone and the paper stick is discarded somewhere in the uncomfortable plastic seats he's flopped all over by now and he's just getting to a comfortable position against his father he feels he can fall asleep in when a man dressed in white comes out and talks to John. They're moving again, this time Dean is trailing on his own two feet behind, trying hard to catch up to the eager man as they're led down the hallway and into a room where...MOM! Mom is there and she looks sweaty and tired and Dean is so happy to see her he rushes to her bedside after dad and clutches to the white railing, staring wide-eyed at her through the openings.

 

"Oh Mary, have you seen him yet? Is he healthy?" Mary shakes her head at the first question, lips pursed tight together.

 

"I haven't seen him yet. He sounded healthy. Strong lungs. Almost scared me half to death when he started crying it was so  _loud_." John laughs, nervous, so Mary does too and then she's sniffling and crying and John kisses her forehead like she isn't covered in sweat and tears. Dean wants to crawl up into bed with her, but something tells him he should go sit in a chair. Ugh its one of those uncomfortable ones like in the waiting room... His feet swing back and forth and he watches them dangle.

 

The doctor comes back a little while later, followed by a nurse carrying a blanket like its the most precious blanket in the world and Dean has already decided she's a strange person and strange people he was taught to avoid so he doesn't look at her as she approaches his mom and dad. Whatever the fuss she was making about it, seems his parents have caught the bug and now he's curious but he knows better than to interrupt grown-up things, he just wishes he had his monster trucks here. He'd be real good if he had those.

 

Its not long before dad is turning to him, the bundled blanket in his arms, and he's kneeling and telling Dean to hold out his arms and to be very careful not to drop that bundle okay?  _Pay attention_ Dean, do not drop him. Dean's very good at following dad's instructions, his tiny arms are outstretched and as dad hands over the blanket oh so carefully, Dean's eyes widen. Its not a blanket at all! Its a....its a wrinkly looking fat baby face nestled in the folds of that blanket! And even though John's hands are right beneath his arms helping him support the thing, Dean is too enamored with the abstract contours of the squished nose, the round puffy cheeks, and the pinkness of its skin to let anyone take him, much less drop him.

 

"This is your baby brother, Dean." John murmurs, glancing up at the stunned expression of his eldest's face. All the wonder of a child's mind encountering something for the first time writing its stories across the little one's expression. Nothing he could have asked for would have ever topped this moment. When Dean settles the child across his lap and drapes an arm over the bundle instead of under, somehow John knows that his littlest pride and joy is as safe in his big brother's hands as he is in his own mother's.

 

"This...is my brother?" Dean asks, not once lifting his gaze from the squirming live thing. John nods despite the message being lost.

 

"Yeah. His name is Sam."

 

"Sam..." Dean echoes, almost startled when those little eyes peep open and tiny brows furrow at him like he's the ugliest thing its ever seen. Dean could argue the same.

 

"Sam..." He repeats, testing it out. Yeah, the little blanket baby looks like a Sam. Its a good name and he smiles. A little hand breaks free of the folds of white, stretching out towards his face and Dean stares at how minuscule it is! Its like a baby doll's hands! Almost unreal... But he puts a finger against that palm and like a clamp those tiny digits close around it, squeezing it surprisingly hard and Dean laughs, eyes glossy as he hugs his brother tighter.

 

"Hi Sammy...my name's Dean."


	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad's gone missing and for the first time, Dean feels alone. What's the worst that can happen popping up in Sam's apartment in the dead of night?

Despite the complex being a low-budget popular college student off-campus pseudo dorm, it's eerily quiet at three in the morning when Dean pulls into the small alleyway behind it. It might not be a weekend, but if the movies were anything to go by, there's usually a party somewhere at all times. Not this place apparently. Dullards live here. The perfect place for his brother to fit in.

 

The Impala's noisy engine makes him sweat being seen by the man in question before he even has the chance to surprise him, but with any luck the man is fast asleep and chalking this up to a passing car. Maybe someone in here isn't as boring as he thinks, has a muscle car stashed in one of the too-small parking spaces. Maybe each time that sweet engine purrs, Sam thinks about him. Just like every time he glances at that empty passenger seat, his chest aches something awful and he parks his baby in the nearest town and wipes out every evil son of a bitch he can put his thumb on. Helps him clear his head. Get it back on track. Sam isn't the most important thing in his life anymore. Hunting is. Its all that helps him get on with his life.

 

Yet here he is, tail between his legs, gaze drifting between the numbered buildings, searching for the one dad always told him Sam would walk in and out of. There's that familiar gnawing of jealousy, too. How dad always made sure  _Sam_ was alright. How many times Dean had caught him in the middle of a stake-out when he'd call for some advice on how to gank the next big thing he was on to. Dad never showed  _him_ that much interest...

 

Again, not the time, not the place. He'll stow that away for another day and another year he won't ever talk about it. Right now, he's got to find Sam's apartment. Shouldn't be too hard in a cramped little place like this, right?

 

He was wrong. It feels like forever, but its only 3:20 when he manages to locate Sam's window. Out comes the blade and he's working the tip between the two panes, wiggling it just far enough in he can flip the lock open. It gives a little too easily and Dean wets his lips, nervous at the implications. The possibilities. Well, dad didn't say anything about seeing signs that his brother's under attack so...fingers crossed he's still here. Nudging the small window up, he throws his arms in, smacking them hard to the wall to support his lower body as he wiggles through the tiny opening, doing his best not to breath or make a sound. At least until he falls face first into the cold tiling of the entryway. There's a god damn bike handle in his side and an umbrella falling smack dab on his face and he stills for a moment, expecting to hear the clamoring of a started brother taking stairs two at a time to fight off his intruder.

 

Silence is golden, they say, and so is Dean. He's in the clear so he springs to his feet, fixes the mess he's made half-heartedly, and scurries through the second door to pad through the apartment.

 

Surprisingly, its more furnished than he imagined it would be, the lingering smell of dinner fading away beneath the sweet breeze of night time air drifting in from the open windows, the stagnancy underwhelming despite the age of the building itself. That's almost a relief that Sam feels that safe. There's no salt in the doorway, there's nothing on the sills. Sam must have had a quiet two years before he decided to crash the party.

 

As his gaze wanders, almost predatorial, heart thumping in his ears despite how many times he's broken into locked places that are much more heavily guarded than Sam's simple little home. Sam's probably heard the commotion by now, headed down to check it out. Wonder if he's gotten sloppy enough to-

 

Something grabs him from behind and the smell of shampoo and men's deodorant washes over him, brings a smile to his lips. Even after two years, Sam still uses the same damn products. Its hard trying to place what that knowledge does to him, but he'll think about it later. When they're on the road and Sam's asleep in the passenger's side like he's supposed to be.

 

Right now he's grappling the grabby hands, fighting the urge to laugh aloud at the muscle memory reactions of his brother's technique. Its obvious he hasn't kept up on his training. Probably no one to spar with on his level here. Doesn't want to stand out. The best attempt nearly takes him down but a swift shove sends the giant windmilling into the other room. To give him credit, Sam at least stays on his feet. This little dance of theirs reminds him of their first time training together, no holding back, dad barking back at them what was wrong in the way they were standing. How Sam's legs are longer so he needs to compensate, they're a weak point Dean targets with glee. That at least hasn't changed.

 

When he hooks a fist into Sam's jaw and the man halts long enough to let him know he's fucked up royally, Dean feels a sense of pride washing over him at the sting of his knuckles. Dulled by his years of punching worse beasties than a sleepy brother. Sam gets sloppier, angrier, another of his weaknesses. Leaves him open to being flipped onto his back by a  _very_ fresh hunter and held down by the squeeze of his throat.

 

"Whoa, easy tiger!" Grip loosening, emerald hues drift between the terrified furrow of his baby brother's brows, falling to hazel eyes wide in disbelief. Yeah, Sam, it was just that easy to take you down. That's pretty embarrassing. Dean almost lets him up, taking that as punishment enough, but that word. That sweet sound he'd never thought he'd hear again.

 

" _Dean_?!" God his face lights up with the biggest smile he's had since...well,  _in years_ and there's a crinkle in the edge of his eyes. Sam. Its really him. He looks so good. So well fed.  _Beautiful_ even. Looking every part of a college boy with hopes and dreams and the wild pulse beneath his fingers excites him even more. What he wouldn't give to trace the throbbing veins in his neck, legendary to make their appearance when Sam's worked up, to prove to himself this isn't a dream. He's not asleep in some dingy motel covered in roaches thinking about making the trip to see his baby brother, he's  _really here_. Instead, he covers up his lack of a decent retort with a breathy chuckle.

 

"You scared the  _crap_ outta me!"

 

"That's 'cause you're outta practice." He snickers back, face contorting to demand his brother  **not even think about it** when that tongue makes its appearance, bubbling at the edge of his lips like it always does when he's had enough taunting in their mad scrambles for dominance and he's about to do something stupid to get back at him. Sam's just lucky his big brother's too tired after his long drive to properly brace himself against the leg in his side and the upheaval of his position of power, flopping heavily onto his back, arms splayed out to avoid landing on one wrong and breaking it in a needless display of arrogance. The ease at which the two of them slip into their old routines makes him laugh again, oddly enjoying the constricting pain at his throat, the smell of fresh laundry filling his nostrils from whatever monstrosity Sam's worn to bed. _This_ is what he's missed. _This_ is why he can't sleep at night.

 

"Or not...get off me." Sam's joints aren't stiff as he hauls his brother to his feet, his muscles aren't as defined as they used to be, but they're still there. Still prominent when Dean bounces to his feet, half paying attention to the third degreeing he's getting, hands grabbing at broad shoulders. Why? He doesn't know. Doesn't know why they're only inches apart when the conversation could be held at arms length just the same. Neither make the move to step farther away. Dean doesn't think he could stomach it if they did.

 

The light flickers on and Dean's gaze darts to the melodic voice drifting from the doorway calling his brother's name, fear that something else had followed him in. Boy was he wrong. Oh  _boy_ was he wrong and did he  _love_ that he was wrong. His jaw drops and oops Sam he's openly gawking at whoever this mystery chick is because DAMN is she a California ten! He almost wants to comment that they're in the wrong apartment, but that'd probably earn him a swift kick to the calf. Probably. More than likely. He'd like to avoid that, considering Sam doesn't hold back even without his shoes on and that boy has some serious daggers for nails.

 

"Jess, hey. Dean, this is my  _girlfriend_ Jessica." Okay, immediate red flag. Hands off, Dean. Emphasis on the girlfriend means don't you even dare. Even if she's smoking hot and Dean couldn't imagine ever letting a girl like her walk past him in the bar without inviting her to a private party. His mouth is almost watering by the time he remembers to close it, unabashedly studying the intricacies of the little blue people depicted on her half tee. He hated those weird dudes, their show made  _no_ sense and that bad guy, that...Gorgonzola or whatever his name was, terrified the crap out of him. Who wants to eat tiny blue people?!

 

"Wait, your **brother** Dean?" She asks, and her voice is like honey. Oddly reminiscent of... Nah, just his mind playing tricks on him, he's sure.

 

"I love The Smurfs." Oh the look she gives him too. Just like the one his brother's probably aiming at the back of his head as he parts from his side, gliding forward to get a better look at the plush fullness of her lips, the curl of her lashes as she scrutinizes him with a patronizing smile. "You know I gotta tell you  _you_ are  _completely_ out of my brother's league!"

 

"Just...let me put something on." God no he wouldn't ask something so  _difficult_ of her, that'd be rude, expecting someone to get all dressed up in their own home. So he voices that opinion, reassuring her that its absolutely  **not** necessary or vital in any way to his presence.

 

"No no, I wouldn't dream of it, seriously. Anyway..." Party over, business comes before pleasure (unfortunately). Plus, Sam's on the verge of gouging out his eyeballs. He can  _feel_ the rage building back there. Or maybe that's just his skin warming and Sam knows this chick can hand him over on a silver platter if she wanted to. Sam never was into weaker girls. He always had a thing for the headstrong and the smart and the capable. He wouldn't be surprised if his brother managed to teach her a thing or two about defending herself.

 

"I gotta borrow your boyfriend here to talk about some private family business but uh...nice meeting  _you_." What he expects is a compliant baby brother ready to meander off into some dark corner so he can tell him why he's  _really_ here, but there's nothing. Nothing but a glance between the two of them and Sam finds his place at the woman's side, all six feet of him standing tall and rigid against everything he's ever known before his life here. He's choosing sides and Dean's insides twist angrily yet despite that he has to admit, Sam looks good next to her. He can almost hear wedding bells, can almost see them sweaty in the heat of the summer night, lips clashing, teeth bared-

 

What the hell was  _that_?! No, you know what, its in the back of his mind, he's forgotten about it already. Buried beneath his millions of other fucked up things he's thought in the past and will think in the future. He doesn't need  _that_  eating away with those 'what does it really mean's. Its nothing and it'll always  _be_ nothing.

 

"No. No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her." Alright, so that's how this is going to go. He gets it. Sam's still pissed about everything that happened that night. Nothing's changed. Sam's still the angry, rioting little shit he was back then. Fine.

 

"Okay." Shifting now, squaring up even with his brother, he swallows past the lump in his throat.

 

"Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days." That should be clear enough to get his message across. But it isn't, Sam looks ready to roll his eyes and send him packing, but there's that patented Sam Winchester sass rearing its ugly head and Dean wants to deck him. Something about dad being in a drunken bender again. Its not like that. Sam  _knows_ better. They've fought about this so many times before Dean's starting to recognize the beginnings of a war again.

 

So he takes a moment. Bows his head. Lets the anger roll off of his back because the next thing he's going to say will bring him right back to where they both need to be. The same page.

 

"Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days." That expression remains the same, stark and stony but Dean knows better. Can see the light flickering on feebly until he registers he's gotten the message loud and clear.

 

"Jess, excuse us."


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're blind to the intimacy they've known their entire lives. Its unsettling to say the least, even to the die-hard woman willing to risk her own life to save the stray flock of a family she has left.

Sam doesn't sleep much anymore. And while that's entirely unhealthy for normal people, its par for the course for a hunter. Even still, at least other hunters get a minimum of four hours before the nightmares jolt them awake. Sam gets one. Maybe two if he's lucky. If Dean sits beside him and hums Metallica or Motor Head while he's leafing through old local newspapers for connections, he can sometimes get him past two and a half. But that's on a damn good day when the subject of their past hasn't been brought up for days.

Dean likes watching him sleep when he finally does, despite the soft pattering of his breath quickening reminding Dean that trauma that fresh is hellish. All-consuming. His brother deals with it in a different way. Nothing like a young boy of only four who would barely tell his father he's hungry let alone talk to a baby brother who was blissfully unaware of what had happened. The only comfort he could find was the fact that he'd been there to pull Sam out of the fire for a second time. He'd trusted his gut instinct to turn that car around at the first sign of his car radio, the trusty girl who picked up every single station so clear you could hear a pin dropping in the background (okay maybe he's exaggerating), going fuzzy.

He might've lost Sam the same way he'd lost their mother and that...would have been the end of him. That gun nestled in the waistband of his jeans would've found its way to his mouth, trigger finger pulling as many times as it took to end his suffering. Dad be damned. That man wouldn't go down until he found the thing that took his wife. Adding his boys' deaths to the unholy thing's ticket would just be the icing on the cake. Its not like Dean hasn't thought about it before.

They spare as much talk as they can on the subject of what's happened to lead them to this point, focusing hard on the job at hand, muscles tense for the next encounter, ready to leap to each other's defense in case a bear or something worse decides to charge them. Haley feels more like a baby fumbling around in the dark surrounded by sharp objects than she does a strong independent woman looking for the last of her tiny family in a sea of bugs and brambles. If she were so inclined, she'd probably blame the 'Rangers' she's been suspicious of since they arrived in a gas guzzling monster of a car like the Impala. One of them, the taller one; Sam she thinks he's called, brings up the rear, flashlight in tow like its the perfect extension of his own hand. He looks like he might be a Ranger, but Dean? He's let a seasoned hunter take the fore while he heads up the protection detail they've maybe unwittingly put in place.

Her and Ben make the center, the safest place. The place Sam or Dean can simply turn around and grab one each to defend if it came down to it. They're definitely not cut out for hiking, but they're hunters of a different kind. She shudders at the thought, fears never getting out alive just in case she's entirely wrong that this whole one line formation is for their own sake. To make it easier to pick off victims.

The feeling only worsens when she confronts Dean, watches the exchange between the two like she's nothing. No threat, no challenge. Whoever they are they can handle themselves regardless of how underdressed they are or how light they packed. Roy might set her on edge, but they terrify her. Especially when Dean cracks jokes. Tries to seem likeable. More human.

Things are still tense between the two groups when the fire's going, their bellies full. Its just her and her brother at the fire, Roy refusing to join them, Sam brooding off on his own until Dean joins him. At least she can tell they weren't lying about being brothers. The way they sit together, walk together, share silent conversations like they know the ins and outs of each other's mind and could go days without ever saying a thing. They work in tandem and she almost envies the way they so evenly balance each other out.

Sam rises first from his spot on the log, wandering to the edge of camp where the symbols stop and he glances over his shoulder, catching her eye which she politely avoids when his hands fumble at his zipper. They're safe in the...Anasazi symbols right? Sam's well within their boundaries, so why is Dean hovering behind him, shoulders tense, squared against the chill of the night air like he's ready to tear anything to pieces if it so much as brushes the other's clothes? Her brothers love her, and she loves them just as much right back, but neither of them would dare come within five feet of her squatting in the woods to take a piss. She's never noticed Ben or Tommy displaying that kind of...possessiveness even when they'd gone camping in the worst spot known for its bear attacks. Maybe in their line of work, its a requirement. Never out of each other's sights for long. It settles like tar at the bottom of her stomach and her frown is far more prominent, disappointment etched in the frown lines of her face. Maybe she was wrong and they aren't really brothers... God she hopes they aren't.

Its over in one harrowing moment, the flash of her entire life gone by and its so mundane compared to everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. She can't wait to get back to screaming at her brothers to put the damn toilet seat down when they're done, wipe the lip, put their dirty dishes in the god damn sink. But first there's no way in hell she's leaving the men who saved her family's ass without a thank you. They threw their lives on the line, both of them, and she can't help but feel they deserve something more than a thank you.

When that lascivious grin spreads across the ruggedly handsome face of the older brother, her heart flutters. No one's ever looked at her that way and he's...he's gorgeous. There's no denying it. She's not willing to give her body as his reward, she's not that desperate and that is in no way shape or form the right thank you this sort of feat deserves, but despite the awkward pause between them she leans in. Kisses his cheek and feels the scratch of his stubble carve the rough memory of him into her lips. She'll never forget him. The vibrant glow of those emerald eyes, the heady smell of sweat and blood and grime caked across his skin, the dank cavern of the mine-lair they'd somehow escaped clinging to the scuffed leather jacket. Maybe if she meets him again and their lives aren't in danger, and her brother doesn't need her in the ambulance beside him. Maybe one day she'll ask him out for a drink and thank him the way he wants her to.

She pulls away and the man seems genuinely shocked at the gentility of the gesture, like maybe for all his efforts he'd been expecting a slap in the face or worse. Nothing at all. An earnest thank you that leaves that cocky exterior in tatters. She's almost proud of herself. Almost. The only thing hampering her gloating is the ball of fury at her back. All six feet of him boring holes into the back of her skull like he's physically ill to see anyone touch his brother (or whatever they are). She side steps the man built from anger itself, a gentle thank you to quell the guilt rising that she hasn't quite acknowledged his roll in the outcome despite using his own body as a human shield to save the innocent.

One last glance back as the ambulance doors close to the boys sitting on the hood of their own car reveals the relief in the youngest's face that they saved three lives. Or maybe he's ecstatic its just the two of them again. She wouldn't doubt the latter. Not for a second.


	4. Victory

The kid is dead weight in Dean's arms, panic filling his muscles with the strength to half freestroke the both of them to the dock.Never in a million years did he think he'd be the one surfacing with the kid. Sam's always been the one with the iron lungs and the will of a god damn bull against an immovable wall. He can't feel the child breathing, or the beating of his heart but there's something in him that tells him the kid's alive. Lucas is a fighter, a survivor. Just like the Winchesters. That ain't for nothing. He's going to make it.

He's got to.

The moment he's close enough, Andrea snatches her baby from him and he's grateful. He's too shaken by the fact that a child's life was in his hands and he almost failed. Again. He hopes he never has to fight for another child's life, two is more than enough to last him a lifetime. Despite the creeping feeling there's something still lurking below ready to drag him back down into the deep, he bobs against the dock awash in the licking subtle waves of the lake water stinking up his favorite army-green shirt. The one dad bought him last time they went shopping to replace the outfit that had been soaked in vile smelling goo from their last hunt. Don't tell him he's going to have to burn this one too...

Sam's hauling him out of the water before he can wallow in his loss any longer than is necessary and despite the potent protesting of strained sinew, the idea he might be the next victim gives him the will enough to scrabble up himself, collapsing across the sprawled and uncomfortable angles of his brother's legs. A bony knee hits him square in the chest and he grunts, rolling off of the man to cough up what water seemed hell bent on getting into his lungs. Andrea's shrieks of joy almost drown out Lucas's own coughing fit and Dean smiles, squinting hard against the dappling of sunlight through vivid green leaves.

Yeah, he's an honorary Winchester alright. Someone get that kid a damn flannel shirt.

"Dean!" Its Sam's voice now, and Sam's all he can hear, feel prodding and pumping his hands over his chest, mistaking that glossy empty stare for a trip down memory lane to a white light in the beyond. Dean groans and what little air he managed to breathe in flees from him in huffs with each pump of strong hands against his ribcage. Which he's promptly swatting the hell away from him in favor of rolling onto his side and vomiting. There's no way in hell he's swallowing water where fish have freely taken a shit in.

" 'm fine...gonna kill me givin' me CPR y'asshole..." He wonders if Sam even knows his own strength. Could've sworn he'd heard his ribs starting to crack. Sam laughs, a deep throaty sound that makes his skin warm several degrees, feeling those hands slapping across his chest as they celebrate a win. A loss, but mostly a win. In Dean's book, he's conflicted. The assholes who killed an innocent kid, bullied him literally to death, got what Karma was cooking for them, but in the process other innocent lives were taken. And even then, the perpetrators didn't deserve going out that way. No one did.

"Thank god..." Sam mutters, and Dean feels himself jostled into a desperate hug, shoulders pressed uncomfortably hard against the man's stomach, vision blurred by a mess of wet curly hair dangling between the short space where their eyes lock. Dean's too dazed to think much of the way they're caught in some sort of trance. The world fading away to leave just the two of them grinning like idiots who just won the superbowl. Even Lucas's soft cries for his mom don't reach this world they're in.

"We got him. We got him, Dean." The plush pout of Dean's lips part for him to suck in another breath, bloodshot eyes drifting between two beautiful hazels so full of the hope and joy that's been missing for so long now.

"Yeah, we got him." Things are really starting to look up. There are always some losses with the job, but so far, there's six wins and four losses. He's going to do everything he can to keep it up two or more if it means that smile keeps making its debut across sun kissed skin. Later, those smiles will feel like a premature gala thrown in honor of their own failures as the realization sets in that Andrea's all alone in the world again but they'll push on. Just like they always do.

The silence breaks between them and at long last they turn their attentions back to Andrea, her arms desperately encircling her baby boy whose face has only just begun to gain the color back. His vacant stare trained on the man who saved his life, fish-mouthing the word 'mom' over and over again. The protective woman lifts her head from the mess of sea-weed littered hair to train her gaze on the brothers, brows flickering together in confusion at the ease which Sam's hands drape over the heaving chest of his older brother, capacious shoulders hunched like some sort of security blanket blocking out the dangers of the real world. Challenging it to throw the next terrible thing at either of them.

Sam strikes her as something merciless in that moment. Fearless. Untouchable. Like he could walk through flames unscathed by sheer will alone if it meant protecting the man he loves. She envies them both, her knight in shining armor is gone now and she'll never lay down next to him, hear the soft snoring she used to hate, feel the warm swell of his arms cradling her against his chest or argue about who was taking Lucas to soccer practice in the morning and who had done it last time. She may never get to experience that ever again, but god is she going to go home and pray for these boys to never have to say goodbye to one another.

'Thank you.' Andrea mouths through her torrents of relief-tears, giving her child one last good squeeze for good measure before she does what she should have to begin with. She cradles him as she struggles to stand, knees weak in her terror, met with glad assistance from Sam and a bolstering of reassurances from Dean who is somehow back on his feet again too. She decides she's unfit to drive, letting Dean take the wheel and Sam to co-pilot the loud rumbling of the black muscle car they'd arrived in.

All she cares about right now is the tired drifting of her child's eyes as the car speeds down the road towards the local hospital and not some ghost child that stole her husband and father from her.


	5. Aviophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joke is less funny when Sam realizes the toll their last job really took on his big brother. Looks like only one Winchester can get away with being an unforgiving asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the Kudos! I know this is a slow-build, but I promise the end result will blow your mind! There's a little bit of everything here for everyone.

Sam can hear the soft whimpering under his brother's light snoring, occasional curse words flying beneath the radar of a comatose brother. Ha. Flying. Yeah, that was an experience he's never going to forget. To think he was the only Winchester on that plane with enough sense to dive for their 'bible' and start belting out the Rituale Romanum in the middle of an aisle full of sardine packed and panicking people as their world jettisoned towards certain doom. Dean was supposed to be the level headed one. What happened to that?

The longer he listens to this pathetic polaroid nightmare playing out between those furrowed brows, the less funny the joke is. The more he realizes he's such an ass. And how much he hates Dean for always getting to gloat over his little brother's weaknesses without remorse. In all fairness, Dean had been right. That's what he can't stand. Sam's jokes are always cut short in one way or another, he always loses every fight brought up because of that big trump card Dean loves to play. Big brother. Well, not tonight. Sam can hear him mumbling under his breath in terror and its eating away at his worn down guilt button.

Instead of finishing off the chapter of dad's journal he's read a thousand times already, Sam bookmarks it in his mind for tomorrow's long ass drive to whatever back country town they're going to next to save the next sorry asshole who got himself a supernatural target on his back. Throwing his legs (with some effort not to smack his heel against the stupidly short footboard) over the side of the bed, he peels back the sheet covering Dean's already sweat soaked body, pit stains reeking despite the fresh shower he'd had before bed. The scent of fear is potent, but its a cake walk compared to the days they can't get to a decent shower.

"Th' hell y'doin?" Dean's jolting awake, startling the tall man considerably though he's not sure why. They're both light sleepers. Even when they've not slept in days and their head finally hits a pillow. A hazard of the job. They're used to it and Sam hates that too. There's a lot of things he hates about their lifestyle...

"You were crying like a damn baby. Move over, I'm tired." One good jab to that ego should deflate the jerk of an older brother, but that wasn't the right one. Gotta weaken that wall first. As expected, Dean smacks his hand away from the handful of sheets he had, effectively ending his ownership of the flimsy fabric, and he dodges a second hand swatting for his leg.

"There's an empty fuckin' bed over there, park yer ass in THAT." Oh Sam's trying not to smile, but the southern comes out when Dean's tired and those slurred words are too precious to be angry at. Sleepy Dean is a grumpy son of a bitch, but he's almost adorable in that murder-you-if-you-wake-him kind of way. Unless the motel's on fire or there's someone screaming for help, there's no way Dean's losing any more sleep than he has to and he will end the life that interrupts him.

"Shut up. Move over." Sporting his patented Sam Wincester stubborn glower, he manages to sway the exhausted brother who couldn't be assed to give up the next minute of possible down time just to win some stupid argument. So in Sam goes, back pressing against Dean's as they settle in opposite directions.

" 'sides, wasn't cryin'." The laziest retort ever to come out of that drooling mouth and Sam snorts, reaching over to flip the lamp off and turn down the tv.

"Right. That's why I sat here for the past thirty minutes listening to you whimpering and groaning about planes." That earns him a swift back kick which surprisingly actually hurt, and he hisses, smacking the asshole's shoulder hard.

"Dude! Just because you're the biggest fucking baby about flying doesn't mean you gotta kick me." Dean only offers the softest and most triumphant 'ha' Sam's ever heard him utter and his lips purse. So tempted to get back at him, but there's that guilt again, gnawing away at his false persona adopted from years of watching Dean pretend he doesn't give a shit.

"But seriously, its okay to be scared of flying. Hell, I think I am now after that." Not really, but if it makes Dean feel better he'll say and do anything. Rolling to face the broad shoulders, slender hips, shorter legs framed by white cotton, Sam hovers on one elbow, gazing at the shell of an ear, up into semi damp spiked locks. "You don't gotta pretend to be a hardass all the time."

That must have ruffled some feathers (unsurprisingly) because Dean's whirling on him, brows furrowed hard, a look of absolute fury in the depth of his lidded gaze.

"If you don't shut the fuck up, stow your touchy-feely shit, and go the fuck to sleep I'm decking you right here and now." Before their reunion, before he went off to Stanford and met Jess and came back to his old terrifying and dangerous life, Sam Winchester might have shut the hell up and gone straight to bed, heart hammering in his throat.

But Sam knows better, can smell the stink of desperation for reassurance like a heady fog leaving droplets of water along bare skin. Weird thing is, he doesn't mind it. In fact, this is kind of refreshing for him. For once he gets to be the brotherly type to soothe and placate internal fears. It makes Dean more...human. Instead of reacting the way Dean wants him to, his free arm draped over his own midsection lifts to pluck the sheet higher, scooting in close against that warm body twisted to fend off whatever imagined slight he felt he was entitled to be pissed at, and settles that same arm across his brother's waist, hand tentatively at the lazy thumping of a heart beneath the toned chest.

"How about you shut the fuck up and go back to sleep, Mr. Grump? You're acting like a real ass right now and I don't want to hear it." The confusion that dances across Dean's face is payment enough by itself and he somehow manages to reign in his smile to a furrowing of his own brows and a dead serious set of his lips in a thin line. Miraculously, it works and the man (after a double take at how authoritative his baby brother has become) settles back against his pillow, obviously still wide awake and contemplating what his life has become that his own kid brother can push him around so easily.

Sam chalks that up as a win on his side, breaking out into a self satisfied grin a mile wide and something at the back of his throat itches. He wants to completely humiliate Dean further, but they need at least two hours of sleep before they hit the road again and his head is starting to pound from the lack of it.

They lay there in utter silence and Dean's uneven breathing rising and falling beneath his forearm tells him he's not the only one who can't go back to sleep yet, so he clears his throat softly, wets his lips, and...hums. Its a song he's heard about a thousand times in the back seat of the car growing up, and then never again when dad gave Dean the Impala. His big brother seems to recognize it within the first few notes despite it being a terrible rendition, tensing as Sam builds it up.

Hey Jude.

There's a pause in between a breath and Sam thinks maybe Dean's going to snap at him again, but then the bed sags gradually with two-hundred some pounds of dead weight as the eldest Winchester drifts off to that blessed dreamland that eludes him. Tucking his face into the curve of spine between Dean's shoulder blades, Sam continues until the song tapers off, lashes falling against his puffed cheek.


End file.
